


After Every Hit We Take

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (not sure which of them that applies to honestly but it sure feels like it), Angst, Choking, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Season/Series 05, Self-Loathing, Violent Thoughts, mentions of stiles/malia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: One minute he and Theo are running surveillance—better Stiles with him than anyone who might actually get duped by his bullshit—in stoic silence. The next, they’re arguing, throwing jibes at each other, trading low blows and pointed jibes and carefully crafted backhanded taunts. Then, somehow, Stiles’ pants are bunched up around his thighs and Theo is gagging on his dick, and Stiles fuckinghateshimself for letting it get to this point.He hates himself even more that it’s not even the first time.





	After Every Hit We Take

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DemonzDust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonzDust/gifts).



> first fic of the year, and the latest in my endeavor to write _all the rare pairs!_
> 
> filling DemonzDust's prompt of "Steo + self loathing" for that Bad Things Happen Bingo i started ages ago and keep forgetting to come back to

Stiles isn’t even sure how he ended up here. Sure, Theo is the one on his knees in an empty parking lot, but somehow Stiles is the one reeling, off-balance, grasping at Theo’s hair like it’ll give him some semblance of control in this situation. He gets the distinct impression that, even with his submissive pose and his wide, wet eyes, looking at up Stiles through tear-dotted lashes, Theo is still the one with all the power here.

One minute they’re running surveillance—better Stiles with him than anyone who might actually get duped by his bullshit—in stoic silence. The next, they’re arguing, throwing jibes at each other, trading low blows and pointed comments and carefully crafted backhanded taunts. Then, somehow, Stiles’ pants are bunched up around his thighs and Theo is gagging on his dick, and Stiles fucking _hates_ himself for letting it get to this point.

He hates himself even more that it’s not even the first time.

It’s not like Stiles has a monopoly on sleeping with the enemy. He tries to console himself sometimes that Derek did it first, for whatever value of consolation that’s supposed to provide. But at least, when Derek did it, he was blissfully unaware of his lovers’ treachery until after the fact.

Stiles doesn’t have that excuse. Stiles is excruciatingly aware of what a snake in the grass Theo is. Long before he first shoved his dick between Theo’s lips, Stiles knew exactly how much of a threat he was, even if he still can’t figure out how or why or for what purpose. And yet, somehow, he always ends up here, thrusting into Theo’s lying mouth with single-minded purpose and hating himself for every second.

He shoves his hips forward harder to see if he feels less like a traitor in Theo’s throat instead.

He doesn’t, but at least it sets Theo to gagging and clawing at his thighs, which is satisfying in its own dark way. Ignoring his struggle, Stiles entertains the impulse to plug up Theo’s nose and see how long he can last like that. Derek told him once that, as a werewolf, he can hold his breath for more than four minutes before losing consciousness. Somehow Stiles doubts Theo would hold out that long.

But he doesn’t do it. Not only because Scott is still infuriatingly unsuspicious of Theo and all the “good” he’s done—all the good Theo has carefully put himself in the position of being able to do—and his death would raise all kinds of questions, but because the sick thrill Stiles feels at the thought of literally _choking_ Theo on his dick makes his stomach lurch with how familiar it is.

The nogitsune would be proud.

It only takes one good shove to send Theo sprawling across the dirty pavement. He blinks up at Stiles in deceptively innocent surprise, his face wet with spit and tears, raw-red mouth open around panting breaths. Then he smiles. He slinks his way back up to his knees, reaching up to thumb at his bottom lip.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his concerned tone at odds with the cat-who-got-the-canary grin. “We were having a good time. You’re not thinking about Malia again, are you?”

Stiles flushes hot all over, except for where his dick hangs out his fly, still wet and exposed to the evening breeze. Because Theo has been sucking it. Not Malia, his girlfriend. _Theo._

Theo’s fingers find his hips again, digging in proprietarily as he tries to tug Stiles back within range to continue. Stiles shoves them off and Theo’s red lips pull down into a frown instead.

“We don’t need to worry about her,” he says. “It’s not like she’ll smell it on you. You’ve barely seen her in days.”

Because Stiles has been avoiding her. Lying to her. It isn’t much of a comfort that he’s pretty sure she’s avoiding and lying to him too. She probably wouldn’t be if he hadn’t started doing it first. Whatever problems they’re having, they all come back to him. Just one more entry on the long list of things he’s fucked up.

“Besides,” Theo says, those fucking fingers once again reaching for him, catching his belt loops so that his jeans pull down with the weight of his hands, rough material cutting into the backs of Stiles’ thighs. “Would she even care? Really? I mean, you have _needs._ It’s instinct. And if anyone would understand base animal instinct, it would be her. Wouldn’t it?”

Stomach churning and a whine in his ears, Stiles shoves his own fingers past Theo’s lips to press down on his tongue, deep enough to make him gag again. His voice is hard and distant-sounding to his own ears when he says: “What have I said about that mouth?”

Theo coughs when the rough fingers retreat, but he still manages to keep that unsettling smile. “That you can only trust it when it’s too occupied to talk.”

“Then shut up and get busy.”

Theo’s mouth is hot and wet and smooth around Stiles’ cock, and it feels _good._ He’s better at this than Malia. And, no matter how Theo tries to spin it, it’s unforgivable for Stiles to know that.

With Theo’s silver tongue swirling around his cockhead and his narrowed eyes—oh so innocent beta-gold eyes—watching him with a hunger that has nothing to do with sex, Stiles can’t make himself forget that this is far from the only unforgivable thing he’s done lately.

He comes down Theo’s throat with a grunt and no warning. Unfortunately, Theo doesn’t choke on it. He just swallows it down like the greedy bitch he is and sets about licking Stiles clean. Stiles lets him, for a minute. Then he shoves him down again. He has to look away from the sight of Theo languidly laid out across the filthy pavement, as satisfied as if the orgasm had been his.

He thinks of kicking him. Thinks of stepping on his throat, leaning into it until Theo claws at his leg in desperation and his eyes bulge with actual _fear_ instead of that careful, calculating gleam that no one else seems to see. He thinks of Donovan’s slack face and imagines Theo’s in its place. The image sends a chill through him, and he’s not at all confident that it’s the right kind.

He doesn’t do any of it. He just tucks his dick back into his pants and zips up, blood rushing in his ears and bile in his throat. His legs shake when he tries to take a step back and Theo chuckles, low in his throat.

“That good, huh?” So fucking proud of himself.

Stiles swallows around an upsurge of nausea and says, “I have to go. Check in with Scott.”

Theo laughs again, pushing himself upright to shake his head at Stiles. “Oh, please,” he says. “Like you told him about this. Scott doesn’t even know we’re here.”

“Yeah, well, Scott doesn’t know a lot of things.”

It’s only after he says it, after he sees the flash of triumph in Theo’s eyes, that Stiles realizes it was exactly what Theo was after. He played right into his hand. Despite all his paranoia and his precautions, Theo is _still_ two steps ahead of him, even in this. And there is nothing he can do about it. He’s already in too deep, too twisted up in all the strings Theo is pulling, not to mention six feet under in the grave he dug for himself.

Stiles stumbles back one step, then another, until his back hits the Jeep, a shaking hand already scrabbling behind him for the latch. It would probably be an easier task if he looked at what he was doing, but it suddenly feels untenably dangerous to put his back to the boy calmly watching him from the ground. Stiles finally manages to get it open, and still Theo doesn’t comment. He just watches.

Stiles clambers into the Jeep on numb legs and says, “You can find your own way back into town,” in a voice that scrapes his vocal cords raw. He doesn’t wait to see if Theo will protest being ditched, not that it would matter if he did. As he starts it up and pulls out of the lot, though, he keeps his eyes on Theo in the rearview mirror. He keeps fucking smiling, even as Stiles leaves him behind, like he knew this was going to happen. Like it’s all still going exactly as he planned.

**Author's Note:**

> [also on tumblr](http://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com/post/182387994836/after-every-hit-we-take-steo-14k-for)


End file.
